The Boy With the Scars
by SquareEyed
Summary: For Draco Malfoy's entire life he was told that he should avoid freaks. Yet now his father was forcing him to make friends with one. Harry Potter was a nutter. Off his rocker. Completely barmy... and scary. It wasn't just the scars. Who in Merlin's name laughed when they got hurt?
1. Prologue

_I have a lot of ideas in my head that I spam my keyboard with and this is the birth of one of those ideas. Draco's not in this chapter but he will be in the next one._

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**Prologue**

Privet Drive was a perfectly ordinary street where definitely normal things occurred. Strange stuff was unwelcome to the residents that lived there, hence why the tall man in the billowing, black cloak was being given strange and even intimidated looks from behind their curtains. The man paid them no mind; he'd spent a great part of his childhood under strange looks, and a greater part of his career intimidating the nincompoops he had to teach with simply a glare.

Unbeknownst to the residents, and to the man, there was a much stranger thing to witness in Number Four of Privet Drive.

The man in question, who was called Severus Snape, was irritated. It was the beginning of August, and in turn the start of his lesson planning. Severus had always liked to be punctual, precise and to the point. He did not savour dilly dallying. Unfortunately, Albus Dumbledore (a man he was an eternal servant to) loved exactly that. Sneering at one of the peeking faces, Severus decided he felt slightly satisfied when the nosy nitwit stumbled away from the window.

He'd never liked muggle neighbourhoods. They reminded him of his childhood home – and his drunken muggle father. The lot of the non-magic folk were ignorant idiots. But, of course, she wasn't. Even if she was a witch, she was raised by muggles, yet she was the kindest soul he'd met. When a musical laugh echoed through his mind he snarled and pushed the memory where he trapped them all. Moments of weakness like this were rare, but under the circumstances he allowed himself some slack. After all, the place was reminiscent of their home… and he was meeting her eleven-year-old orphaned son who happened to also be the child of his greatest enemy.

Finally, he stepped in front of Number Four. Scanning the house, he noted the odd condition of the car, unlike all the other cars in this practically identical neighbourhood. Markings were all over it, red paint, he supposed. They didn't seem to be drawings nor language, or runes, even. Just intelligible scribbles, as if a small child had gotten hold of a can of paint.

A slight movement at the next door's window made Severus glance up: the nosy neighbour staring couldn't seem to figure out if the car or Severus himself was stranger. Scoffing faintly, he turned back to his original attention and headed to the door of Number Four, not before he eyed the windscreen of the car. There was a drawing there. It was a face, with a crude smile.

Severus knocked. The door opened on its own accord, and he took that as invitation to walk in. The most he knew about the family who lived here was that her sister was taking care of her son. Petunia Evans was a nasty little girl and he had no wish to meet her again.

The unpleasant feeling bubbling inside him made him question once more why in Merlin's name Albus wanted him here. From the brief message Severus had received, the man hadn't seemed alarmed but there was a hint of urgency in his voice. He dearly hoped it had nothing to do with interacting with the muggles.

"Ah, Severus! Do come in," came Albus' voice from the room straight ahead. Severus walked past a vacated living room, past the stairs where there was a small door to a cupboard and straight into what turned out to be the kitchen.

His curiosity about the lack of muggles was forgotten the moment he caught sight of James Potter's unruly jet black hair peeping from beyond the back of a chair. Memories exploded from the back of his mind as bitter hatred surged through his veins. The boy looked like his father and Severus hadn't even seen his face.

Jaw clenched, he tore his eyes away to look at Albus, who was sitting on another chair at the dining table, smiling serenely. Yet behind the half-moon spectacles on the man's crooked nose, Severus saw… remorse. "Take a seat."

To the point. No offers of one of his infernal sweets, or even a common courtesy introduction. In other words, no dilly dallying. How very unlike Albus Dumbledore. Taking a moment to absorb all this, Severus, rather uneasily, stepped away from the doorway and took a vacated seat next to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Six seats around the dining table, yet only three were occupied. He wondered briefly where Petunia was, then decided he didn't care. Biding his time, he finally looked over to Harry James Potter.

The first thing that captured his notice was her eyes. Lily's eyes. Like the grass and leaves that surrounded them during their childhood as they chatted. Like life itself. For a moment his breath was stolen, until the sudden urge to scream whooshed air right back into his lungs. He didn't, but it was a struggle.

Then, he focused on the rest of the boy's face. It was as if the cruciatus curse had been cast upon him, the way the shock jolted through his body.

The boy, who had been observing him calculatingly, suddenly started to grin. His lips stretched so wide that it looked inhuman and the frantic cackling that followed didn't much help his image of humanity. In horror, Severus watched the unnerving smile touch her eyes — no, those weren't Lily's eyes. They had no passionate fire, no warmth, no sweetness. No life.

This time he did scream.

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_I'm using DC comic's character 'Joker' as an inspiration for what Harry will be in this fic, fyi._


	2. Madam Malkin's

**_Warning: _**_You should expect some gruesome and dark things to happen and be focused on as this fic progresses. I'll mention any trigger warnings I can think of but regardless, things get dark, so be aware of that while you read this fic._

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If there was one thing Draco Malfoy didn't appreciate, it was being told what to do.

The squat witch that was called Madam Malkin was ushering him to the fitting room, interrupting any objections he had towards her briskness by her bumbling. Giving her a filthy look as she told him to step on the footstool, Draco made a point of straightening and dusting off his robes before doing as she asked.

"Hogwarts, dear?"

"Yes," he replied with courtesy, which was the Malfoy way of showing 'I don't like you'.

As she bustled off to browse for his school robes, Draco took in the little shop. He wasn't sure why his parents hadn't taken him to a better robe store, considering this place was small and squat with no extraordinary qualities to it – just like its owner. Smirking at his joke, Draco congratulated his excellent taste in humour. Unfortunately, his newfound amusement vanished just as quickly as it had emerged.

The place was a bore. Worse yet, there was no way in which he could entertain himself with. None of his friends were here. Their parents had busy schedules like his ones did, so it was impossible to arrange an outing together. As another witch started, painstakingly slowly, pinning up his long black Hogwarts robes to fit him, Draco wondered if he should just storm out of the shop and complain to his parents about it. It would be fun to watch his father shut down the business with a simple tip-off at the Ministry.

Just as he was about to carry out his plan, Madam Malkin was back, whisking someone else onto a stool next to him. Draco turned his head to see her pushing a robe over the newcomer's head. He wondered why she was being so quiet with this customer, considering she wouldn't shut up with Draco himself. Old hag. Probably recognised that he was a Malfoy and wanted to get his attention and influence. Not that he blamed her, but it was annoying nonetheless. Finally, the robe fell over the other boy's head. Draco opened his mouth to greet this piece of entertainment.

His 'hello' died in his throat.

Vincent Crabbe's father was the most marred person Draco had ever met. His face was gnarly and scarred, as a result of a severe case of dragon pox. Well, that was until he set his eyes onto the boy next to him, who had turned his head to observe Draco.

Surrounding the boy's face was crude stitching as if the skin of it had been cut off and sewn back on again. Draco was no Healer but he believed that whoever had done the stitching was terrible at their line of work and should be fired immediately. There were also several small, but jagged scars criss-crossing on clean skin. A chunk of the face was burnt and crinkly.

Still lost for words, Draco caught sight of the lightning-bolt shaped scar on the boy's forehead, which had seemed completely unaffected considering the skin that surrounded it was as shrivelled as a house-elf's. He'd grown up being told about the famous Harry Potter. About how he'd defeated the Dark Lord at just a year old. How, should Draco ever meet him, he would make a useful ally to the Malfoys.

Nobody had ever told him, however, how freakishly scarred the Boy Who Lived was.

To be honest, he wasn't quite sure he wanted to associate with the other boy, Potter or not. Though he supposed it would be easy enough – most people would find his appearance too strange to be around him. Potter would need any ally he could get and Draco could bring glory to the Malfoy name by supporting one of the most famous, beloved wizards of the century.

Before he could think of something polite to say to cover up for staring so long, Potter started giggling. Like some weird little pixie. Shifting uncomfortably, Draco yelped when the witch working on his robes accidently pricked him with a pin.

"Can you watch it?" Draco rounded on the bewildered witch, who muttered an apology but whose eyes were focused on the still laughing Potter.

"Perhaps don't move so much, sir," she finally responded. Draco would've told her to watch her tone with him, too, but he found that his attention was drawn as much as hers towards Potter.

"What's so funny?"

The laugh abruptly stopped, _thank Merlin_, but his creepy grin was still in place. Draco wondered if his cheeks hurt.

"The way people look at me."

"Maybe you should buy a mirror," he sneered, certain it would wipe that infernal smile off Potter's face. It had the opposite effect. Draco flinched when the other boy grabbed his arm, doubled over and wheezing with renewed laughter.

"_Get off me!_" he snarled, shaking his arm. Potter's response was a tightened grip and heavier wheezing. Now starting to panic a little, Draco looked to the witch behind him and Madam Malkin for assistance. The small, squat witch came to his rescue and suddenly Draco felt rather guilty for his earlier plans of ruining her unremarkable business.

"Mr Potter, dear, I need to fit this robe over you."

Finally, Draco's arm was free. The Boy Who Lived was wiping away some tears as he straightened himself up, apparently still trying to hold back some giggles. Quite shaken, Draco brushed off imaginary dust on his unfinished Hogwarts robes, simultaneously trying to do the same with the entire incident.

"Has anyone told you you're hilarious, Malfoy?"

Draco gave him a disdainful look.

"Been reading up on me, Potter?"

"Don't need to. It isn't hard to tell who's a Malfoy." Well, at least the freak had some class. Raising his head in an aristocratic manner, Draco sniffed and turned his head away, deciding he would never complain about boredom again.

"So your father killed non-magical folk, then," Potter stated matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. As he turned back to the other boy, the witch behind Draco cleared her throat and excused herself, whilst Madam Malkin let out an exclamation.

"Now, really! This is not the kind of talk I want in my shop."

"They're all creatures. They certainly shouldn't be allowed in our world," he responded, ignoring Madam Malkin's tut of disapproval. To his dismay, Potter started to smile again. All it did was pronounce his many scars, making him look like some sort of gremlin ready to pounce on an unsuspecting victim.

"So I've heard before."

"Right, Mr Potter, you're all finished," Madam Malkin took off his Hogwarts robes and trotted away, leaving the two boys alone at the back of the shop. Draco's heart started hammering against his chest. The other boy was _still_ grinning. What happened next was so sudden that it was hard to process.

Now Draco was gawping at the droplet of blood snaking down his finger. Had he… had he actually…

Still clutching the pin, Potter was now calculatingly staring at the bleeding finger.

"Why do they call you Pureblood, then? It looks the same as muggle blood."


	3. Malfoy Manor

_Trigger warning: mentions of child abuse_

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It was fascinating how much circumstances could change.

Dinner at Malfoy Manor was usually an elegantly lively affair: extravagant meals would appear on the table, the occupants of it would usually engage in intellectual conversation, and the guests would always be a joyous addition to the event. Except now, everybody was in solemn silence, Malfoys and guests alike. Even Mr Parkinson – a large man with many chins and many jokes to spare – seemed determined to only occupy his mouth with eating.

Sitting at the end of the table, Draco poked his chicken with his fork. Even though his mother had healed it, his finger throbbed from where Potter had pricked it. As his fork pierced the pale flesh, his stomach flipped and he pushed the plate away.

"Draco?" His mother's smooth voice amid the silence was somewhat of a comfort. Sometimes when he had a nightmare, a house elf would fetch her so she could whisper soothingly in the quiet of the night. Glancing up at her cool expression, he knew she was concerned because there was a slight raise to her eyebrows.

"I'm not that hungry. Can I go play outside?"

"Me too," announced Pansy Parkinson. For once, he wasn't annoyed with her following him around. In fact he didn't particularly fancy the idea of being alone.

"Same." Theodore Nott stood up, getting a disapproving look from his mother and a verbal scold from his father.

"No, it's quite alright Theodore," Draco's mother told Theodore Senior, disregarding his son's bad manners. "They might need to burn some energy to regain their appetites."

"Perhaps you should take Potter with you," added Draco's father. Mrs Parkinson cleared her throat daintily; clearly she agreed.

"That won't be necessary." Severus Snape, Draco's godfather, was seated at the other end of the table, on the same side of his mother. He had walked into Madam Malkin's with Draco's parents right after the Potter pin incident. Apparently, he was advocating to become the legal guardian of Potter. Speaking of, the Boy Who Lived was opposite Snape. Being seated next to his father, this meant Draco wasn't tall enough to see Potter at all. It would be a difficult feat regardless considering how small the scarred boy was.

"The boy needs some fresh air!" Mr Parkinson boomed, also seeming eager at the prospect of a Potter-less dinner.

"Yes, let the children play," said Mrs Nott, accompanied with a grunted agreement from her husband.

Panic flaring, Draco turned to his mother for support. She was regarding her husband coldly; they seemed to be having some sort of communication, most likely through occlumency. Her eyebrows raised higher and higher than ever. Eventually, she turned her attention to her son.

"Draco darling, you're ever so good with flying," she said affectionately, and despite everything Draco felt himself swell with pride. "Young Potter hasn't had the chance to use a broom yet. Perhaps you could teach him?"

Being able to teach Harry Potter, a boy with a troubled past, Quidditch… that would do wonders to boost his reputation. Smirking, he rose from his seat, thanking his parents for the service. The still standing Theo approached him hesitantly, looking over his shoulder occasionally to where Potter sat, probably waiting for him to come towards them. The boy was blocked by Mr Nott, so Draco still couldn't see him.

"The mention of Quidditch has reestablished my appetite," said Pansy. Nobody believed her, but they were all polite enough not to mention it. Well, except for Potter.

"In my opinion, it's rude to lie," he stated. They heard his chair scrape the polished wood of the dining room. From the corner of his eye, Draco saw his mother flinch. Most of the adults wore expressions of displeasure at the bad manners displayed, but nobody was his parent so nobody could scold him.

"How can you talk of good manners when you have none?" retorted Pansy, her explosive anger getting the better of her. There was a pause. A giggle rang through the dining room, reverberating in the silence. Her eyes widened slightly.

"I love how you lot think you have good manners." Everyone chose not to respond.

Potter emerged from behind the form of Mr Nott, his unnerving stare focused right on the other two boys, Pansy seemingly forgotten. As was to be expected at this point, there was a slight grin curling his lips. Theo edged a little closer to Draco. Personally he wanted adult supervision.

"Severus, you'll be the referee for the boys?" Draco's father asked silkily, obviously having the same concern.

"Naturally."

x_x

"You still haven't answered my question." Theo was being uncharacteristically quiet, intently studying the passing portraits, on Draco's right side as they walked through his Manor's hallways. On his left was Potter, who he could tell was scrutinizing him to an uncomfortable level because of the hairs on the back of his neck standing. Behind them was Snape, as silent as ever, carrying three of Draco's older broomsticks provided by the house elves.

"What question, Potter?"

"Why are you called Pureblood?" The audacity. Draco finally turned his head to glower at him.

"I come from generations of pure witches and wizards–"

"Yes, but your blood resembles that of a muggle."

"It does _not_–"

"How do you know what muggle blood looks like?" Theo interrupted, making Draco turn to him. It was a good enough point that Draco didn't snap at him for interrupting his rant. The flash of fear in his friend's eyes made him reluctantly turn his attention back to Potter, who was smiling from ear to ear, stretching his horrible scars.

"My Uncle Vernon liked to hit me, see," (the kind of savage behaviour Draco would expect from muggles), "and sometimes I'd fight back. Especially when I figured I could do something he couldn't." Wheezing laughter followed this, until it finally died down in his throat.

They lapsed into the four pairs of footsteps and the occasional snore of a portrait. All had seen Potter enter and now they were pretending to sleep, the utter cowards. It wasn't like he could prick _their_ fingers.

"So they never told you about magic," Theo muttered. Potter snickered.

"Well done, Sherlock." Draco gave a puzzled look of which he was sure Theo was also doing. This only served as more encouragement for creepy Potter laughter.

"You wizards are so uneducated. You've known the existence of the muggle world your whole lives and yet you know nothing about it."

"Why learn about animals?" Draco sneered.

"The hunters need to know about their prey." When he started sniggering again, Draco had no wish to hear any more weird laughter, or weird words, for that matter. He abruptly turned around and requested a broom, of which Snape provided, before turning back around and marching faster towards the front door at the end of the hallway they were in. The rapid footsteps behind told him that Theo was following suit.

When they reached the outside, Draco mounted his broom and kicked off, soaring into the sky. The wind swept his hair backwards as it batted his face, whistling in his ears. Swirling through the clouds, he decided he would make Potter wait before he started teaching him anything.

Draco dove downwards towards the grass, focused, until, right before he hit the ground, he swerved sharply upwards. It was a trick he had spent weeks teaching himself; perfecting it had been the highlight of his summer holidays. His mother claimed he would make an excellent seeker, of which he completely agreed with. When he reached the clouds, he dove back down again to reenact his trick.

A blood-curdling scream penetrating even the wind's wails made him lose focus. The broom became imbalanced, making him hurtle downwards so the front of it sharply pierced the dewy grass, the back of it bucking. Draco was thrown onto the ground, using his arm to shield his face. The pain that jolted through it made him cry.

Curled up pathetically on the ground, he listened to the faint brushing of grass approaching him. He hoped to Merlin that it was Theo. Merlin didn't answer him.

Staring right to the sky, tears blurring his vision, Draco watched a scarred face grin downwards at him. There was something scarlet splattered across the gnarls and scars… he had an inkling as to what, and it made him sob harder.

"Don't worry Malfoy, I'm coming back for school. I was just really bored and Snape was nagging me like my Aunt Petunia." He chuckled, clutching what turned out to be one of Draco's brooms. "I hope you don't mind if I take this. It's not like you'd be missing it. And don't get nervous now; I reckon I can fly just fine." With that, he giggled as he walked away, leaving Draco to whimper on the ground.


End file.
